Jus post bellum
by russiasnow11
Summary: 'Justice after war'... Divia's reappearance felt like one. [Nicholas/Lacroix]
1. Chapter 1

One day, weeks after Divia, Lacroix woke as the sun set and froze. Suppressing the instinct to jump, he turned to see someone lying next to him in his bedroom. He still preferred dark reds and blacks for his rooms, except for the two set aside for Janette and Nicholas, though they didn't always use them. Their rooms were always there for them, just in case.

Although in this case it appeared Nicholas hadn't used his room for weeks, Lacroix realized suddenly; he had slept with him instead. He was here, in Lacroix's house, by his own will. And not even in his own room! It boggled the mind, and Lacroix had the unsettling feeling of coming back to his senses after a long submersion in shock. After Nicholas killed Divia, he had lingered by him as he wrapped her body in white sheets and set it ablaze.

He could barely remember it, despite his vampirically precise memory. It was disconcerting. He sat up slowly on the bed, detangling himself from Nicholas, who he had apparently been holding onto. Lacroix rubbed his face with a free hand and stared down at his son.

Nicholas had the healthy flush of a real diet on him, and was dressed in the pyjamas Lacroix had put into his room years ago. He suddenly recalled being handed a glass and someone tipping it to touch his lips-his anything but obedient child had fed him, Lacroix realized. He must have guided him around appropriately, seeing as he felt as though he had showered just a while ago.

He felt recovered, but shaken internally. After danger things always got worse. The aftermath killed just as many with aftershocks as actual battles did. And what would Nicholas say upon waking? No doubt Divia had enjoyed regaling him with what he had done to her. And how only she could have him. She'd even said that back then, in the past. That only she could have him. It had disturbed him intensely.

Gods, he thought. Is that what Nicholas felt? That worry and horror... no, it could not be. Nicholas had always come to him like a moth to a flame. Soft and entranced, embracing him gently. It was always deep, quiet romance with him, and while Lacroix could provoke him into intense reactions, it wasn't his default.

He saved his passion for music, always writing scores upon scores of it. Lacroix knew he sold it to mortals and their industry, but refrained from commenting. Nicholas got deep fulfillment from his work, and Lacroix knew how dangerous it was to keep an artist from their medium. For the first time in his life, he looked down at his son and wondered what he would say-not with anticipation or grim acceptance, but with dread.

There was no way out of it-he would speak of Divia at length. He'd ask questions, want to know about his past, his feelings. And all of it was too much.

He got up and left.

Nicholas woke up to hear something familiar... what was it? He strained to hear, turning over, half awake. It was cold and he wanted to sleep more.

"Indeed, my dear, I think you have the wrong take on Poe..." a voice spun, drawing you in. It continued, all academic expertise and wry art of war clapbacks. His eyes snapped open. It was Lacroix. He was taking callers on his radio show. Nicholas sat up in a confusion, hair askew. The bed was empty.

So he had woken up, he thought. He sank back down onto the bed on his elbows. Aristotle had been right, the old ones could enter a recovery phase of docility and nonsense talk for a while and emerge as if everything were normal. Lacroix had pulled through. He finally woke up for 'real',

Nick thought, and sighed with relief in the echoing, empty halls of his father's house.

He trusted Aristotle, but he had been worried. To see Lacroix murmur strange babble-talk that didn't make sense and become still and pliable in his hands was one of the worst things he'd ever dealt with. It was a terrifying living death to witness.

Aristotle had warned him that Lacroix would be very sensitive about all of it when he woke, but Nicholas hadn't listened to him-he'd been too worried about him waking at all. And now he had, only to leave? What?

He sat up and crossed his legs. Pondering, he picked up the phone on the bedside table. Should he call Lacroix and ask if felt okay? Why had Lacroix bothered to go do a show at all anyway? Or what about Aristotle, he might have more answers... Of course Aristotle was all preoccupied with his own problems, namely a woman. Called Parker, the girl was a young mortal with a lot of experience stealing under her belt. Aristotle had become somewhat fascinated with her after she'd found him-convinced that stealing immortality would be the greatest work of all.

She was an odd one, very strange, but Aristotle had warmed to her immediately-and vice versa. He had talked to Nick repeatedly about possibly taking her as his child. There were only a million endless potential problems there, so he called all the time.

Lacroix would be done with his broadcast soon, he realized with a start. Nick had put him down for time off at work, with the caveat that he could return at any time. What would he say after enduring this 'sick time'? Nick doubted he'd be happy to talk about feeling anything less than one hundred percent, much less being cared for like a child by his own crazy son.

He needed something to talk about... something to allow Lacroix and himself a reprieve. Nick jumped as the phone rang suddenly.

It was Aristotle. "I may have over-estimated my emotional control," he began nebulously, and in that second, Nick knew what had happened. He'd taken her, overwhelmed by the joy and the spell of connecting with someone. Sharing emotions, even without blood, was a serious high for immortals-especially since most of them had few things [or people] left that could do it.

From what Nick could surmise from Lacroix's odd statements and Aristotle's history lectures, many ancient vampires simply tired of existing at all and wiped themselves out. They needed a break. Without death looming ahead, life had turned into a hell for them. A world they didn't care about, new languages, new worthless mortals, endless change, never feeling like the wheel would stop rolling. They were metaphorically crushed under the wheel of time.

He threw some clothes on and rushed out the window to Aristotle's apartment. Even Nick was more ready to make a child than him-and he wasn't at all. Aristotle had as much emotional sensitivity as Nick with less tolerance for cultural prejudice. He basically hated Lacroix and felt he should adjust his behavior to make room for the 'intersection of their two oppositional cultures of medieval and late Roman'.

Nicholas personally felt more comfortable when Lacroix was just himself than if he'd acted like he felt religion was a-okay. It would just be weird. Lacroix was a hardcore atheist, and intense in literally every other belief or feeling he had. He was on or off, black or white. It was Nicholas who was sometimes grey.

Even though he hadn't mentioned Aristotle's quandary to Lacroix, he felt he'd disapprove. The issue was that Aristotle didn't want to be 'bad', as he put it, but seeing Lacroix that way left some things out.

The wind whipped at his face as he picked up speed above the city. Now, centuries later, he could see clearly why Lacroix had performed many of his harsh schemes. He had wanted Nicholas strong, open to new things but not naive, level-headed instead of idealizing people, curious but not falling into snake oil traps, and on and on.

Because Lacroix had created all those scenarios himself, he had been able to 'expose' Nick to the real 'immortal' world and its dangers without actually putting him in danger. Over the years, Nick had heard of other fledglings who died both old and young, all making stupid mistakes.

Every story he heard made him think the same thing: I remember when Lacroix taught me better than that... Immortality made everything more of a risk, more of a problem. His lessons had schooled him in being alert, cautious, wise and restrained. He had tempered him a little from his natural emotional tumbleweedness. Not that he didn't still just roll across the plains of life, but at least he was a bit more experienced.

Nick landed on the windowsill of Aristotle's apartment, just outside out town, and pulled it open. He could hear Aristotle begging the girl to put her hands down. His tone indicated it wasn't working... Nick took a deep breath and headed in. Living eternally as a child, as 'lower' and 'beneath' someone wasn't something most people could handle. Even mortals could wait until they grew older and their elders died in turn. Vampires didn't get that feeling of succession, of freedom. It was a hard reality. Your mother, father, lover, friend, teacher, punisher, bully and benefactor was always the same person, forever.

It got unbearable real fast. Aristotle was about to sink in the quicksand that was early immortal toddler behavior. As the mind adapted to its new life, most people had to be 'taken' care of like little two or three year olds. And what phrase came to mind?

The terrible twos.

When Lacroix returned to the house, Nicholas was gone. To his job surely, he thought, annoyed.

Nick had probably felt finally free, literally, when he woke up. At least he could sit in peace. There wasn't even a note. Lacroix paced through the halls of his home, curiously observing all the changes. There was a gameplayer device hooked up to the television, and most of the rooms were in a bit of disarray. As an understatement.

Nicholas wasn't the ocd organizer type, he thought wryly. The kitchen was filled with dozens of bottles of blood, surprising him, and his son's personal room in the house was a total mess.

The floor was covered with hundreds of pieces of music scoring paper, and a laptop was set up next to a tiny electric keyboard. He had been busy with this.

Most of the time, his children didn't live with him or use their rooms. It didn't change the fact that they were there, and he enjoyed spending time finding things they would like. Things that seemed to 'fit' their style, their personality. Nicholas' room was always very simple and comforting, with a enormous down comforter on the bed, and an openness to the shelves and furniture. Everything was wood and big, shapeless pillows.

The bookshelf included both what Lacroix wanted him to read [if he could pick] and what he would want to read in reality: criticisms of society and culture, adventure stories and discussions of his cult's religious texts.

Lacroix still couldn't believe that his silly little cult had survived; just his luck that Nicholas had been born into it. He never said it, but he couldn't begrudge his son his god, it did comfort him so. He had often found Nicholas asleep clutching a rosary-with no marks on his hands. There had been many odd incidents of Nick being able to touch holy items without pain, but Lacroix was loathe to discuss it. Nicholas had unique abilities, but was not objective enough to practice and refine them anyway.

His room's shelves always had a few books of poetry. Nicholas was one of the few who knew that not only did Lacroix love writing it, he was also an enthusiast. His collection was enormous. In that vein, Nicholas had always given him little volumes of verse if he'd enjoyed them so that Lacroix could comment on them. They had always had long, endless conversations. They could talk about anything.

Of course, that didn't stop Nicholas from pursuing a whole other life than his 'real' one. A fake, pretend-mortal life, where he wasted his time, kindness and simple good heart on transient, mindless peasants. Hopefully, it would make him feel more confident and bold, Lacroix thought. And perhaps it could slowly fix his naive outlook in a natural, easy to accept way [since he rarely appreciated Lacroix's own, hard-won lessons]. ...It was a trade off.

And now here he had been. Not at his job, not at his apartment, here in Lacroix's own house, beside him. His golden hair had been spilled haphazardly across his pillow, his dark blue pyjamas only accentuating his natural Apollonian beauty. His son had always been unique, in look and in oddities. Weirdly, he had one little loophole in his 'run away' plans that Lacroix could never understand. He still called.

After Lacroix inevitably found him every time-wondering if he'd wanted it, since he never used a real fake name, just his own-Nicholas would call him. And they would talk about everything.

Everything but the fact that he randomly ran for it. It was hard to think about head on, much less to really process and deal with. Nicholas would call him every night and talk until he fell asleep [on the phone, even] two hours later, but would rarely come and see him. He had often seemed almost afraid of him, but not in a corporeal way. And not because he was being threatening-because seeing him made Nicholas look away, hesitate, become nervous. They fell into being lovers over and over, but then would stop for a while when Lacroix inevitably said something too sarcastic about anything he held sacred. From mortals to Mary the Virgin, it was a long list.

Sometimes Lacroix caused their relationship [whatever it was at the time, at least] breakup without even realizing he'd done it until Nicholas wouldn't call him. It was often a shock. Nicholas was special to him, unique in the immortal community. Everyone else had a layer of conniving and false kindness at work, but never him. Nicholas was always himself, even though it never gained him anything. Even though it put him at a huge disadvantage.

He was also the only one who wasn't afraid of Lacroix. Even Janette was more obedient than honest. Nicholas refused to fake a moment, to lie for a second. It meant they constantly argued and created endless problems for them, but it also was the only real thing in Lacroix's life. Most immortal

children were simply soupy with their yes-men attitude, simpering and agreeing like a sychophant.

Many powerful immortals had children like that, and appeared to enjoy it. It only showed them to be fools.

He knew that the day Nicholas did that, became fake and pretended with him just to make things easier, was the day he would lose forever. Lacroix would do anything to make sure that never became reality. He could not bear to be alone, especially since the memories of Divia's early death at his own hand had always haunted him. Even when arguing, Nicholas always soothed him just by being there and being 'real' with him. They had hard lines they never crossed. As in, Lacroix was too much a stalker, yes, but Nicholas didn't ever bring that up-the patheticness of it. The weakness of it.

Or rather, he didn't use it against him. There were many things they never used against each other. Their physical relationship, or the way he liked to hold onto him as they slept; Nicholas's weird hidden photo collection of him [doing nothing, the photos were all boring, to be frank]; the way

Nicholas had to come over sometimes because he couldn't fall asleep by himself.

And sometimes he had to back out of a room unseen because Nicholas was smelling his shirts... even though they were hanging in the closet, fresh and unworn.

There was the way Lacroix's blood was way too truthful for either of them, and the way Nicholas's was too jealous. It was laughable but true. Nicholas had a weird possessive hatred of Lacroix's friends. He seemed to think that any of them could suddenly interest Lacroix and create an 'out of the blue' relationship-you'd think that would be exactly what Nick wanted, for him to be pre-occupied with someone else, but no. Nicholas hated them with a passion. Any friend of Lacroix was no friend of his, despite his outward respectfulness.

They also didn't really talk about their mutual interest in each other, their love. It was too inappropriate for Nicholas' inherent, strongly felt cultural feelings and too 'weak' for Lacroix. And it was Lacroix's blood that sometimes revealed the wish that he could relax, take a day off, stop caring about Nick-but he couldn't turn it off. It was hard to live through.

It was too uncomfortable for either to mention. Even Lacroix didn't want to truly humiliate Nick, or vice versa. Nicholas had his own strange issues-the truth came out in blood, time and time again. He always got inexplicably nervous that Lacroix was eyeing some random little mortal to make a new child, an easier one, somebody who just went with the flow instead being a crazy stick in the mud. A dutiful child, a respectful protege, a loving

subordinate. How embarrassing was it to get worried about your stalker losing interest?

Lacroix's blood was older, too, with deeper levels of thought.

He wanted someone to love him. He wanted it like plants want the sun to rise each morning, it felt inescapable, essential, like a disorder of wanting co-dependency. At the end of all his philosophical wanderings he had realized that that was something that mattered to him. He felt it like a weight on his chest.

He had been so intensely lonely for so long that he was willing to do almost anything for Nicholas's companionship. He didn't care what it took or what kind of time it was: all that mattered was he got those hours of time with him. The reality was, he needed quantity over quality. It could be time arguing, or fighting, or sleeping together. He preferred love, but he'd happily take anger over nothing. It was so much better than being alone, sitting in silence, hating being alive, than having no one. That was a fate worse than death, and he knew, since he'd lived it.

Years had passed as he sighed at each new day, eons had skipped by while he almost couldn't find a reason to get out of bed. He did of course, and put on the appearance of a happy snake, but his heart wasn't in it. No one knew how aimless and upset he had been for most of his immortal life.

No one but Nicholas. He and Janette rarely shared blood-people usually only did it in the most committed, loving of relationships. Because you could read so much in blood, so quickly. As the minutes passed, you could learn things you didn't want to know.

Like the fact that Nicholas thought he was a little 'fixer-upper project' of Lacroix's to pass the time, that he had chosen him because of his quote goodness. As if he was a fun side interest so that Lacroix could practice intimidation, manipulation and disdain.

Most of the time Nicholas didn't think that, but a little part of him felt that way, and it was worse than a flesh wound to know it. He needed Nicholas, that was his big flaw. He was co-dependent. He couldn't bear to have their relationship trivialized, even in jest.

Of course, that didn't mean any of them acted appropriately. While their hearts were in the right place, they both acted like idiots most of the time. Just like all the other immortals, and the little mortals as well.


	2. Chapter 2

Nick walked back into the hall, closing the door behind him. It had been a rough ten hours, although he hadn't been able to keep track correctly after a while. It was pretty draining, dealing with a new vampire-especially since Aristotle had made her strong. If Nick made a random person immortal, it gave them no strength. He didn't even know how to muster any intangible force up, to be honest.

Well, in this type of thing. He could do quite a bit with his focus, when he concentrated. He'd seen others do it as well, vampire who had extremely strong faiths. All over the world, in any cult or sect, it seemed one or two vampires had real 'holy' power. They had met with him once, explaining that there were others like him. And that they had taken over the enforcers long ago, making it a group of more 'otherworldly' powered immortals.

But really, if Lacroix made an immortal, he could make them strong. It was a choice, and required a lot of work. He had done it with Nicholas, making him even more powerful than Janette, something she still cursed at him about if she were really angry. That was how he'd found out about it. To feed you slowly with tiny drops of blood, the slower the better, for days and days - that was part of it, he knew. And to make it the hardest, most powerful type of blood to drink-in his case, Lacroix's blood.

Weak, average mortal blood made you weak. Lacroix had spend an extremely long time letting his body fight to adapt, and that long, unconscious struggle had made him incredibly tough. Compared to other immortals his age, he was twice as strong. Even when barely drinking real blood as sustenance. He often reflected ironically that Lacroix's careful making of him was the only reason he was strong enough to fast or drink poorer quality blood.

Aristotle had made this girl, Parker, very strong. He had also unfortunately done it too fast. Instead of taking months upon months like Lacroix had, he'd done it in a rush. The body couldn't handle that type of stress so fast. They had finally got the girl unconscious, but it had taken forever. She was both clever and fast, her mortal life clearing informing her super-powered reflexes and ability to slip away.

The hallway was dark, but there was some light coming from one of the rooms. Lacroix had to be home, then, Nick thought, and took off his coat. He trekked down past the fancy rooms and their quiet elegance. Of course, the only room that didn't fit in was his own. It was nice, though, how Lucien was willing to do it for him. He always let him room be more normal and average than the rest of the eerie, millionaire style design of the rest of his houses all over the globe. Nick got the only un-creepy room in the place, every time. It was like that was his concession to his love of Nicholas, that he would tolerate average style.

Nick had no doubt he thought of it exactly like that.

Lacroix was going to pretend nothing had ever happened, he knew. He would be willing to talk about Divia right about when the Lord Savior came to receive all souls for the final judgment. Nicholas could handle that; Lacroix wasn't the talking, feelings-sharer type. He had never spoken about his mortal childhood, just the military campaign parts of his life. Nick had never asked him, either. It seemed rude.

Someone like him would be hurt by prying questions, not feel valued for the attention. And the other side of the coin was important too, the side where Nicholas had never, never spoken of his time in the Crusades. There were a lot of reasons, but most of them were that Lacroix was not on his side. He was eternally a foreigner in a very real way, a cultist, a non-believer.

And he seemed to know nothing of the secret Christian groups that had existed back then, and what they did.

Lacroix often espoused the belief that there was nothing supernatural in the world, no god or magic or anything. He even said that vampirism was merely a virus that made them superior to mortals. A type of 'positive', incurable sickness. But Lacroix had also never felt power himself, Nick was sure. He could not touch holy objects knowingly.

And that was the key.

Nicholas wasn't proud of it, but he had tested him. If he took a holy piece, and invested it with his focus and prayer, it became a quite lethal weapon. [He had often killed vampires who came after with random objects [a frying pan, once], or bible pamphlets.

Random immortals turned up all the time wanting to either lecture him, insult and physically abuse him, or just kill him. They all wound up dead, and since they attacked when Lacroix wasn't around, he never found out about it.] Nick had taken many different holy objects, both typical and random, and touched them to Lacroix's skin without his knowledge. During sleep, while awake, it didn't matter.

If he didn't know it was there, his quiet internal goodness shone through, and he wasn't harmed. It was only when he knew a cross was there that he would be hurt by it. An interesting complexity, to be sure. It was as if he willed himself to be hurt in that instant, in that moment.

Nicholas couldn't figure it out, but he was sure that eventually? Lacroix would be a big get for god. He passed the last bedroom on the right and went in the final door. Light peeked out through a crack; Lacroix almost never kept doors shut. It was a weird preference of his. Nick walked into his study, a weirdly modern looking room without any Roman-esque touches. He had once said he needed this type of room 'to think in', and couldn't be 'distracted' by any photos; once disallowing Janette to put some framed photos in one of his studies.

He was unique, to be sure. And yet, Nick was glad he'd chosen him. Other immortals had approached him at various points of his life-some saying they were immortal, some seeming to be witches, and a few men who were almost the paradigm of a learned, serious mage. But none of them had meant anything to him. And Lacroix seemed to like feeling as if he'd plucked his little naive Christian from regular life and given him the best gift of all.

The real best gift was just himself, of course, nothing mattered above love, but Lacroix had a hard time understanding things like that. They had spoken quite a bit before Lacroix had revealed that Janette was kind of 'his', and that he could have them both if he just would consent to live for all of time with them. He was actually a very romantic man. It was something that surprised Nick, even now. He himself was more the random soldier, art enthusiast, bumbling tourist than some type of fancy lover. Lacroix was nothing if not fancy.

Even his solidity, his toughness seemed kind of graceful. He had never pretended he didn't intensely love Nicholas, who was a little more low key about relationships. He had mourned Janette's dissolution of their early 'marriage' partially because it made Lacroix more relaxed. He seemed to feel that Nicholas would not leave him and stop loving him if he had a woman at the same time. It was kind of annoying, but Nick couldn't hurt him by saying anything. Lucien got way more paranoid about 'keeping' him when Janette wasn't there. He had acted like that right at the very beginning, before Nick had ever even thought about taking a break from him.

Lucien was a little overwhelming sometimes, to say the last. It was all well and good to say you wanted a romantic partner, but sometimes you just wanted to chill in your own space, alone. Without someone interested in everything you did, said and thought. People need space. If you crowd plants, they die.

Nick put his hand up on the study door and opened it a few inches, peeking around the corner. Lacroix sat there in his usual place, and it made him feel a rush of comfort, to see things back to normal. Lucien looked up from his laptop, and before he could say anything, Nick decided to ensure the conversation wouldn't upset him.

"Aristotle said the empire would have dissolved anyway, without any over-expansion," he began, speaking quickly. "I told him I'd see what you said about it." Lacroix was just as affronted as he'd hoped. A foreigner, and a Greek at that, talking about things that weren't his business? Lacroix felt many world events were only recorded correctly by him.

"This is just one more reason you shouldn't be talking to that philosophy obsessed fool," Lacroix said sharply, but he leaned back in his chair. Crisis averted. Nick came in and sat on the edge of his desk to listen, something he'd always done. Lacroix would make a great professor, if only he'd waste his time on it. "That's a common mis-understanding of the later period. If he bothered to learn at all about the earliest times, which I doubt he has," he began with gusto, "he'd understand the basic underpinnings that started it all..."

He went on for a hour and a half. Other people would have fallen asleep, but Nick had always enjoyed listening to him. He had such a strong personality, with opinions on everything [and anything]. Nick only had firm opinions on the Lord. And music. Everything else was up for grabs, usually.

The day passed as usual, and Lacroix bought even more gold bars online before they retired to the bed. Lacroix had a thing about dressing and undressing him: he liked to pick out his clothes and watch him in the first, and personally do the second.

When he put his hand on Nicholas' shoulder, he almost hesitated, so he asked him about the latest film news he'd heard.

Lacroix was weirdly a big film person. He watched many films... we're talking a strange number. He seemed to connect with it in some way. " 'The Witch' is finally out," he said, as Lacroix kissed his neck. "Do you want to see it? And what about that new 'Macbeth'? I think I might like it, it's all art design, from what I heard, anyway."

A hand smoothed down his arm slowly, and he lost track of time for a little while. "I haven't decided yet," Lucien said suddenly, and it took Nick quite a long time to get out of the haze he was in and connect that sentence. He opened his mouth to say something banal but got sidetracked when a different hand, the backs of his fingers, ran over his neck. Lacroix never bit him first. He didn't know why. Nick always did it first.

It either meant something, or it was personal. Either way, who knew why. Lacroix was still just as mysterious [in some ways] as he had been in the beginning. He suddenly bit him, feeling almost underwater in emotion. It was relief, and something else... with a side of being relieved. Lucien was still his old self. They went to bed, eventually, and the next day dawned with Nick having nothing to do. He didn't have to go into work, but hadn't bothered to tell Lacroix anything about it. He had randomly decided to stay at home, he told himself. He deserved some time off, just to have fun, after what he'd been through.

And he missed Lacroix. He was tired of how stressful it had been, how worried he'd felt. God, he'd spoken to Lacroix like he was in a coma. But he didn't dare ask if he'd heard anything. They were never going to talk about this. Lacroix was already a little more quiet than he usually was, if only due to Nick's obvious love-in-action. By now, Nick knew he'd figured out how long he'd been 'out of it' and how Nick had taken care of him like a baby. All without now humiliating him for it or using it against him, or even mentioning that it was indeed reality. Given an excellent chance to kill his old, odd love, he hadn't taken it. He had always reacted like that to any evidence of love, anytime Nick did something to show how much he cared about him. It was hard for him to take love directed at him, despite his lavishness when dishing it out on his favorite crusader.

Nick had never asked him the obvious question - if he felt religious people were stupid, worthless sheep, why had he gone after Nick? Why not choose someone smarter, older, wiser, more atheist? Nicholas had no idea how upset Lacroix really was at his mention of films. Those titles, he knew about; he'd seen advance copies long, long ago. And he took the mention of them in a way that Nick did not intend, and could not imagine.


End file.
